Molly looked out over the wooden bridge at the sky. It was so vivid that night, so vivid it seemed unreal. She loved it—absolutely loved it. The lavender grey and the peachy red seemed to go so lovely together.


She checked over both her shoulders to make sure no one was watching, then smiled and set down her boring-looking handbag. Taking one last glance around, she quickly snatched her art pad out with her drawing supplies and started coloring down the sunset. In short time, she was more than halfway done with it—and she never looked so happy doing it. That is, until. . .


“MOLLIANNE GLORIBELLE WILBURT!!!” A voice echoed ear-piercingly that made Molly jump, her hot pink pencil dashed across the paper—she winced painfully at it. “Get your butt in the house! Come up this hill right now!!”


Molly winced again and looked extremely depressed. “Yes, mom!” She put her art pad quickly into her handbag and ran back over the old-wobbly-foot bridge to the shorelines. Her mother continued to rant at her, so Molly couldn’t stop to fix her shoulder-strap while she was still in the sand. The bag broke and fell to the ground. ‘Aw well,’ Molly grimaced. ‘I’ll just come back out for it later. After all, at least that way Mom can’t take it again.’


Running out of the sand, her legs, feet, and dress were all gravely-looking. Knowing mom would be upset by that, Molly stopped for a short instant on the base of the tall-grassed, tree-covered hill to pick up a handful of weeds and rub off what she could without getting her hands dirty.


Hearing her mom’s continuous ranting made Molly’s eyes twitch; the lady never ceased to get on Molly’s nerves. In what little time she had, Molly got off most of the sand and ran up the hill. Her dress and skin, however, now had grass stains on them.


“Mollianne!!” Her mother screeched as the young lady came into view of the hill top. The woman looked frantic; her very eyes were insane and her black hair was an awful mess. A fool or a wise man would mistake her for an almost beautiful witch, but they’d never apologize for it. In reality, at least to Molly, the woman was a harpy.


“I can’t believe you ran off again!” She screeched. “Where is your handbag, I bet you were out there being ‘creative,’ weren’t you?!”


“I don’t know,” Molly replied coolly; controlling her temper, because that’s what the lady didn’t want.


“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW, GIRL?!”



“I said what I meant and I meant what I say,” Molly shrugged. “Get over it, it’s good for you health.” ‘As if I care about your health.’ Molly added in her thoughts rather sarcastically.


“Don’t play games with me, girl.” Her mom said bitterly. “You can’t win. Now give me your handbag.”


“My handbag is worth more to me than you ever will!” Molly replied from her heart. “That is something you’ll never understand you old witch!” She ran back to the house, away from her mother who ran after her with a stick she picked up on the way.


Crying, Molly ran through the crooked, dying house, creaking as she went. Finally, she found her room through the franticness and went in, slamming the door quickly, then locking it. She listened in horror as her mother got closer and closer, screeching all the way. Her eyes landed on her empty bookcase near the door, she attempted to push it to no avail. The thing was STUCK to the floor. ‘Oh no!” Molly cried internally. ‘I gotta get outta here! I gotta get away!!”